storm in a teacup (spit & forget)

i have lost
the storm is already in my head
verbum domini
someone take this teacup from me

i’m roaring from beneath the earth
life, you beautiful bastard
you’ve gone and avalanched me again

her plane flew the coop
she left me to silk another day
and i am bereft, here to rot
death beneath an ashen tree

i’m roaring from beneath the earth
in an arc of sonic dismay
life gone, you’ve avalanched me again

farewell to thee, my dead christ
farewell to thee, my once fey
to crucifix and pricked white bosom
farewell fate’s capricious dice
farewell this bleak and empty day
in the month of may i hied away

 

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2019

Oops!… We Did It Again (transient)

Erm… hullo there. (This is rather awkward…)

Dear Reader, the stuff that was originally posted here has been removed.

We have done this because said stuff has since been included in one of our published books. We hope you’ll believe us when we say we’re not trying to be stingy. No, this has been done to honour the people who have already spent their hard-earned money on our eBook creations.*

If, however, for some reason you’re unable to buy one of our books, and feel you’ll die without seeing this piece of writing, then please contact us via admin@unbolt.me. We won’t allow our Dear Readers to fade away in the dark. We’ll send you the piece in question, and it will be absolutely free. All you need do is ask.

* Of course, we would be like two happy puppies if you too decided to buy one of our books.

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2008-2018

Lose to Night

Sisu in the face of certain doom.

There’s no earthly reason why I should be feeling what I feel today. From when my head left its pillow my stomach kicked in. It’s a coil of snakes writhing and golloping me up inside. I can’t concentrate to work. I can’t let go and play. I can only churn times ten. I’m a tight knot waiting to unravel.

The years have seen many friends fall to this monstrosity at the middle of me. Emotionally, I’m just too high maintenance. I go out of my way to cover it up but at some point the façade crumbles. It always does. And then they see me for what I really am. And they get overwhelmed. And eventually they flee.

So now I lock myself away, waiting to unspool. Please, for the love of criminy, just let me unspool. I want to come unutterably and exhaustively undone. Can I rejoin society then? I’m scared of losing the two people I care most about in this world. I need to be safe. Or at least safe enough to handle.

It’s not about aggression. That isn’t why I sit in this room listening to my music. It’s about having something be louder than something else. I need to rumble the snakes out, to shake the bastards loose. To let heavy metal do its thing. Maybe it can save me from myself this time. No, seriously. As preposterous and overblown as that might sound—as metal might sound—just… just save me.

I hear the voices roaring from the speakers. I feel them thundering from beneath the earth, drowning out my insides. And even as I lay buried, my roiling innards will not be silenced. So I scream too, adding my voice to this cognitive and sonorous dissonance. It’s never been about aggression. It’s always been about survival. About letting people know I’m still buried down here. Sleep is so stupid and wasteful. I have to live. I want to live.

I see you, you things inside of me. God, you’re beautiful, but you’re sick. I know what you are. And I know you cannot have me. See? I’m lobbing a Molotov. I’m torching you, motherfuckers. I will not lose to night.

Yeah. Sisu. Sisu in the face of certain doom. That’s what I choose.

 

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2017

All I Want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth

Poor Santa. Year after year he thinks of everyone else but no one thinks of him. He delivers gifts by the sack load to a gazillion billion entitled ingrates, and do they thank him? Hell, no! If someone catches him shimmying down their chimney on Christmas Eve, they punch him in the mouth and have him arrested!

He doesn’t even get given Christmas cards. Not a single one. Only an angry letter from some guy named Tony. No wonder Santa doesn’t feel loved. No wonder he wants to quit being Santa. But it’s okay, Santa, we still love you. There’s always next year.

Merry Christmas, Santa.

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINATONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2016